“I know,” Fabiana said matter-of-factly. “You have been appointed, or rather managed to appoint yourself, dictator in perpetuum. Dictator for life. Congratulations, Imperator.” She looked at him over the rim of her cup as she drank, her black eyes showing a spark of the temerity she was known for. It was always that way with the high priestess. She was kind yet imbued with an edge of impatience and candor that came from decades of managing too many people and personalities.
“It’s for the good of Rome,” said Caesar. “You’ve dealt with the Senate.” He spoke under his breath. “A bunch of rich old men waxing poetic about the virtues of the Republic, and for no other reason than to put more coin in their purses and squander more land. Under my command, Rome will be more of a republic than it has been in decades.”
“Some aren’t so sure. Some say you are King Tarquin reborn.”
The centurion who stood at Caesar’s side widened his eyes and tightened his lips. Had anyone else said those words to the dictator, their head would be topping a spike by now.
“Tarquin, with all his arrogance, would have made a better senator than king. You will see, High Priestess . . .” He looked distractedly over the Vestal’s shoulder as a flourish of whispers and muted excitement swept through the gathering. “Ah, but now enough talk of kings. I see a queen has arrived.”
Cleopatra VII Philopator. The notorious queen of Egypt had already been in Rome for a year, living in Caesar’s country house with their young son, Caesarion, and providing a well-spring of scandalous gossip the likes of which Rome’s upper class hadn’t enjoyed in generations.
Caesar had not—would not—publicly acknowledge the boy as his own; the child’s sharp nose and small, close-set eyes, however, were an acknowledgment in themselves. They were a mirror image of the Roman general’s own.
As she did everywhere she went, Cleopatra strolled into the courtyard as if it belonged to her, cutting a swath of superiority and style through the chattering cliques of patrician Roman matrons and men. Her long golden gown clung to her slight waist, curving over her hips and extending down her legs to feather the ground. Her arms were bare except for the gold bracelets that snaked around both upper arms.
Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and on her head was a gold diadem with the symbol of her monarchy, a ruby-eyed cobra, in the center. Like her, the cobra gazed down at the world, regal and ready to strike at any moment. Polished white pearls and dazzling gemstones were nestled into her black hair to create the type of striking contrast the queen was known for.
With her hook nose and large eyes, she was no exotic beauty. Pretty at best. Yet her slaves knew precisely how to accentuate her allure and shroud her flaws. She moved with the grace of a cat and purred when she spoke.
Caesar and Fabiana rose. Caesar took the queen’s hand as she floated toward them.
“Majesty,” he greeted. “I’m delighted you could join us.”
“It is your great day, my love,” she said. “I am honored to share it with you.” She turned to Fabiana, her smoky eyes lined with black kohl and her red-ocher-painted lips narrowing into a smile. “And in the company of Vesta’s high priestess, no less.”
“It is good to see you again, Queen Cleopatra,” said Fabiana, not bothering to sound convincing. She was getting too old for that.
“Has Caesar told you of his plans to build a great library here in the Forum?” Cleopatra queried her. “It is to be modeled after the Library of Alexandria: thousands of scrolls for study, a museum, public gardens . . .”
“And, of course, a special building for the Vestal order,” finished Caesar.
The old priestess laughed out loud. “The priest Lucius tells me you have promised to build a massive temple to Mars as well. Where will you get all this marble?”
“Well, if you refuse to ask Vesta for it on my behalf, I shall ask my ancestor, Venus. Or I shall ask Cleopatra to petition Isis for me.”
“Immortal women love you as much as mortal ones,” smiled Fabiana. “You shall have your marble, no doubt. And I will be glad for it, Julius. Learning belongs among the temples.”
“We can agree on that much, Great Lady,” said Cleopatra. “Priestess Fabiana, tell me truly—what do you think of Caesar’s dictatorship? You are his kin so you must know his heart. Is it not for the good of Rome? I have been in your city for a year now, and even in that time, I have seen things improve. Caesar’s policing forces have made the streets safe. His accounting has lowered taxes for the common people. The friendship between Egypt and Rome has filled Roman stomachs with Egyptian grain. You have even adopted our calendar . . .”
“Queen Cleopatra has given us much,” said Fabiana. “Perhaps Her Majesty should be dictator of Rome as well as pharaoh of Egypt?”
Caesar slapped his leg at his aunt’s gibe. “She could do it too.” He picked a stuffed olive off the tray of a passing slave and pushed it into his mouth, his eyes widening as he spotted a familiar young priestess.
Like all the Vestals at the party, she wore a white stola and a veil that covered her head. Her personal slave, an auburn-haired Greek beauty five or six years older than her and dressed in a fine green dress, stood dutifully behind her mistress.
“Ah, Priestess Pomponia,” said Caesar. “Come closer. You are also celebrating a great day, are you not?”
“Yes, Caesar, I am surprised that you would remember such a thing.”
“How could I forget?” He gestured for a servant to hand Pomponia a cup of wine. “Cleopatra, young Priestess Pomponia is today celebrating ten years as a Vestal.”
“That is significant?” asked the queen.
“Vestals serve the goddess for thirty years, Majesty,” said Pomponia. “We study for our first ten years as novices. After that, we are dedicated full Vestals who tend the sacred flame and perform public rituals.” Despite the fact that she was a few years younger than Cleopatra and was speaking to a queen, the Vestal had not a trace of subordination in her voice.
Caesar swallowed a mouthful of wine from his gold cup. “Lady Pomponia and I have a history,” he said casually to Cleopatra. “As Pontifex Maximus, I recommended her to the order when she was only a child of seven.” He turned to Pomponia. “I remember the day you took your vows,” he said. “After Priestess Fabiana cut your hair to wear the veil, I took the locks to the Capillata tree and hung them on the branches. I can still see them blowing in the breeze.”
“It’s a tradition that’s better for the birds than young girls,” smiled Pomponia. “No doubt some sparrow made a fine nest of my hair. It’s grown back, though. It’s long again.” She pulled back her veil to show her chestnut hair and then, too informally and without thinking—“Caesar, where is Lady Calpurnia?”
She realized her error immediately. Everyone knew that Caesar’s wife Calpurnia avoided public functions if there was a chance her husband’s Egyptian mistress might attend.
Pomponia swallowed so hard that Quintus, a young priest of Mars who was standing an arm’s length away, raised his eyebrows and looked at her, scolding her with his eyes.
“I’m afraid Calpurnia is ill,” said Caesar.
“I will offer to the goddess for her health,” said Fabiana.
“Thank you,” said Caesar. “How kind.” His glance shifted to Pomponia’s slave, who stood quietly behind her mistress, head down and hands clasped together. She was taller than Pomponia, with a beautifully angular face and naturally sharp features that impressed even without a touch of cosmetics. “And how are you, Medousa?”
“Imperator, I am well.”
Cleopatra’s smile tightened even more. “I have not known you to be so familiar with slaves, Caesar.”
“This one is special. I purchased her myself in the Graecostadium on the morning that Priestess Pomponia took her vows. She seemed a fine slave for a Vestal: physically flawless and well educated.” Caesar reached out to
touch the pendant of Medusa, the snaked-haired Gorgon, which hung around the slave’s neck. “I named her Medousa for the charm she wore,” he said. “Medusa, to ward off evil.” His fingers traced a circle around the pendant.
Pomponia wasn’t sure, but it seemed as though Cleopatra’s entire body had tensed.
Caesar turned to Fabiana with a sad sigh. “Tempus fugit,” he said. Times flies. “What I wouldn’t give to have those ten years back. I was in battle, but my armor was not so tight.”
“Ten years ago I could still walk up the temple’s steps without my knees cracking louder than the sacred fire,” said Fabiana.
They all laughed.
Pomponia exhaled and looked over her shoulder, trying to avoid eye contact with her companions. She noticed Rome’s great lawyer and senator Marcus Tullius Cicero talking to some men by one of the courtyard’s decorative pools. He waved politely at her. She smiled and waved back, her bright hazel eyes and soft features relaxing.
She liked Cicero. He had successfully defended a Vestal’s brother years earlier, and he had spoken in favor of giving even more privileges and protections to the order. She had once sat next to him in the arena during a particularly spectacular animal-hunt performance when she was a young girl. The games had been in celebration of an important military victory of Pompey the Great and had included the slaughter of over twenty elephants.
Pomponia could still hear their cries. Screams, really. It had taken the giant beasts so long to die. They had clambered together, the older ones trying to protect the younger ones.
When Pomponia had looked away, Cicero had patted her hand. We are of one mind, Lady Pomponia, he had whispered. The games have their purpose, but I derive no pleasure from this either. In fact, I have often suspected that animals have much in common with mankind. Surely such butchery does not please the gods.
A political animal through and through, Cicero was one of the senators who had accepted Caesar’s invitation to attend this gathering. Like most senators, he revered the Roman Republic and looked down his nose at Caesar’s grab for power. Unlike some senators, however, he was willing to wine and dine Rome’s dictator to stay in the game.
Pomponia tensed as Marc Antony, Caesar’s brilliant but boorish general, swaggered up to the senator and threw his arm around him. Antony was an unusually muscular man with a thick neck, a head of curly, dark brown hair and a face leathered by years marching under the sun on military campaigns.
“So, Cicero,” Antony bellowed. “What’s this I hear about Cleopatra refusing to send some promised books your way? It’s all anyone can talk about! Gods, you’d think this town would have bigger problems, eh? What with our new dictator and all . . .” He poked a finger into Cicero’s shoulder and then looked across the courtyard to see whether Cleopatra had overheard.
“A misunderstanding,” said Cicero. He pulled his head back, avoiding the wine stench of Antony’s breath and sidestepping the general’s efforts to stoke open conflict.
“That’s a good man,” barked Antony. “Forgive and forget, eh?”
“The choice of the wise,” said Cicero, knowing Antony neither forgave nor forgot. “Mea sententia, General.”
Pomponia turned back to her companions. With Fabiana, Caesar, and Queen Cleopatra now immersed in conversation that fluttered between politics, wine, and astronomy, she decided it was a good time to discreetly make her retreat. Politics were exhausting.
Moving across the gardens with Medousa in tow, she took refuge in the columned peristyle that surrounded the courtyard. She stood in a slant of shade cast by a tall statue of a long-dead Vestal priestess.
And although she didn’t give him the satisfaction of returning his chastising gaze, she still felt the critical eyes of the young priest Quintus watching her.
* * *
The last of the gathering’s guests had departed. The Vestal priestesses Fabiana and Pomponia sat languidly in the courtyard as slaves noiselessly cleaned around them, returning tables and couches to their proper places and fishing litter out of the garden pools.
“It’s getting cool,” Fabiana said tiredly. “I think I shall retire for the evening.”
“Caesar will never forgive me,” said Pomponia. “He thinks I was trying to be clever.”
Fabiana smoothed the veil around the younger Vestal’s soft face. “Caesar has known you since you were a child,” she reassured. “He knows your heart. And he is worldly enough to tell the difference between youth and malice.”
“Why did he choose to meet here today? Why not celebrate at his home?”
The old priestess sighed. “He was sending a message to the people and the Senate. He wants them to know that he has the support of the Vestals. You must remember, Pomponia, Vesta’s eternal flame sustains Rome itself, and we are tasked with sustaining it. Regardless of what changes come and go, regardless of what dictators rise and fall, regardless of what disease or devastation sweeps our streets, the sacred fire burns on. It comforts the people. It reassures them that the goddess still protects them and Rome. It is the one constant in a changing world. That is why he sought my help. He wants the people to know that their world will not change under his dictatorship.”
“What did he want you to do?” asked Pomponia.
“To stand on the Rostra with him during his speech tomorrow,” Fabiana replied.
“Are you going to do it?”
“No.”
“Why not? If the people need us, what harm can it do? Is Caesar not family to you? He has always supported our order.”
“Our duty is to the goddess, not to Caesar,” said Fabiana. “You must always remember that.” She pulled off her veil with a sigh, revealing the short gray hair beneath. It was not something the conservative Vestalis Maxima would have done ten years ago, but the courtyard was private enough, and her age had loosened her stern adherence to tradition.
“The Vestal order is the oldest and most revered priesthood in Rome’s history,” said Fabiana, “but that hasn’t stopped a few people from using it for their own purposes.” She folded her veil in her lap. “We must never allow others to exploit us. We must protect the sacred flame . . . and each other.” She paused and then continued. “Someday I will tell you the story of the Vestal Licinia and you will understand.” Fabiana arose slowly. “I’m taking my old bones to bed now. Bonam noctem, my dear.”
“Bonam noctem, High Priestess.”
Pomponia pulled her palla more tightly around her. It was cooling off quickly now. She cast a glance around for Medousa, but the slave was nowhere to be seen. She was likely cleaning up in the kitchen or, much more likely, supervising other slaves while they cleaned. The Vestal stood up tiredly, pulled off her veil, and thanked the goddess that she wasn’t on watch in the temple until morning.
She left the greenery of the beautiful garden to slip through the peristyle and enter the grandeur of the Vestals’ home, a residence that rivaled the affluence of any domus in Rome.
She bent over to unfasten her sandals and then strode barefoot across the white-and-orange floor mosaics and up the stairs, finally shuffling into her private well-furnished chambers to feel the warmth of the hypocaust heating embrace her. Two slaves entered after her, carrying basins and fresh bedclothes, and began to undress and wash their mistress.
Outside the House of the Vestals, on the cobblestone street of the now quiet and darkening Forum, Julius Caesar’s large, gilded lectica sat idle with several centurions standing guard around it and eight litter-bearers waiting patiently. The heavy curtains were tightly drawn.
Inside the lectica, Medousa lay naked on a smooth cushion. Her eyes were fixed on the rich red tapestry that covered the ceiling and the gold medallion of Venus that stared down at her.
The back of her neck burned as the chain of her Medusa necklace dug into her skin. Caesar was clutching the pendant in his hands, twisting it around his fingers eve
r tighter. But then that pain was replaced by a sharper pain between her legs.
Caesar prompted the Vestal’s slave to open her legs further and she obeyed, squeezing her eyes closed to stop herself from crying out as Rome’s dictator thrust into her, finding yet another way to enjoy the pleasures of sole power.
Chapter II
Ut Sementem Feceris, Ita Metes
As you sow, so shall you reap.
—Cicero
rome, 44 bce
One year later
The morning of March 15, 44 BCE—the ides of March—began as any other. Dressing. Breakfast. Prayers. Washing the marble pedestal altar in the temple with pure springwater and offering into the sacred fire that burned atop it. Taking inventory of documents in the Vestal offices and the temple’s vaults.
By midmorning, Pomponia’s stola was damp from a sudden fearful sweat. A line of perspiration formed along her veil, dripping into her eyes. She blinked the stinging away.
The dictator Julius Caesar was dead.
A temple messenger had banged on the door of the House of the Vestals so hard that it sounded like Jupiter himself had thrown a thunderbolt at it.
“Caesar is assassinated!” he said from the street, bending over with his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. He had run nonstop from Pompey’s Curia, the building that was being used to hold senate while the old Curia in the Forum was being fitted with new marble and mosaics.
Pomponia pulled him into the atrium of the House of the Vestals and, impatient with his attempts to catch his breath, slapped him across the face. “Speak sense, you fool.”
“Priestess,” said the messenger, “I saw it with my own eyes. He was stabbed just inside Pompey’s Curia. Senator Cimber grabbed his toga and tried to pull him down. Caesar was shocked. He cried out ‘Ista quidem vis est!’ at the violence. But then Senator Casca tried to stab him in the throat.” The messenger gulped for air.
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